


Fighting For A Reason

by Rospberry



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: ANGST!!, Angst, Blood and Violence, Drama, M/M, Self-Harm, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-18
Updated: 2018-07-18
Packaged: 2019-06-12 14:22:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,542
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15341706
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rospberry/pseuds/Rospberry
Summary: Set before and after the Battle of Hogwarts. Marcus doesn't want Oliver to fight and the consequences make him reassess their relationship. Violence and relationship angst without any fluff.





	Fighting For A Reason

**Author's Note:**

> An old fic unearthed from my hard drive and completed forcefully during a writing session today. I never could figure out what direction I wanted it to take. It's only taken eight years or so :). Entirely self ingulgent waffle and completely unbetad so apologies in advance.

Oliver and Marcus's flat, before the Battle of Hogwarts

When the phone started ringing, it took Oliver a few seconds before he realised what it was. Pulling his trainers on his feet, he stumbled across to the side table where the Muggle object lay, wondering who on earth would be calling him now when the entire country was at war.

"Hello?" he said, jamming the phone between shoulder and cheek as he crouched down to tie his undone laces.

"Don't fucking leave that flat!" The voice was so strident that Oliver almost dropped the phone.

"Marcus? What the hell…?"

"Don't you even think about going anywhere, Wood," Marcus continued as though Oliver hadn't spoken. "The second they get this fuckin' Floo network open again, I'm coming straight to you. And you'd better be there."

A knot of fear gripped Oliver's stomach and he straightened up sharply. "No. Stay where you are. It's safer there."

"You come to me, then."

"Marcus, come on, you know I can't. We talked about this." Jacket, where the hell had he put his jacket?

"Fucking load of arse, Wood. I swear, you'd better not be plannin' on doing anything stupid. Stay in the flat."

The jacket was on the back of the chair, and Oliver picked it up, taking the phone in his hand as he shrugged it on. He was desperately trying not to think, keeping moving so he didn't stop and consider the insanity of what he was doing; he just knew it was the right thing to do, no matter what his boyfriend thought.

"I'll be fine, Marcus, really. Stay in Belgium; I'll come to you when it's all over.

"Don't you fuckin-"

"Got to go," Oliver interrupted. "I…I love you, all right? Stay safe."

He didn't even try to listen to the bellowed words coming from the receiver; he just replaced the phone in its cradle and headed for the door.

He had to get to Hogwarts. There was a battle starting, and Harry needed all the help he could get.

 

 

St Mungo's, after the Battle of Hogwarts

The foyer of the hospital was in complete chaos: wooden chairs were draped with bleeding bodies, eyes staring wildly from chalk white faces. The walls echoed with blood-curdling screams and the incessant gibbering of voices raised in fear. Voldemort may well have been gone, but he had left behind a nation who rocked their dying loved ones in their arms as they tried to piece their lives back together.

Standing amidst the devastated survivors of the war, Marcus Flint tried to get a Healer's attention, but he was waved away: they had no time to waste on the healthy. In his tailored wool overcoat, unmarked by any battle, he stood out, and he brushed his leather-gloved hands over the expensive material as he scanned the faces around him, searching for someone, anyone, that he knew.

The instant the international Floo network had opened, he'd Flooed to Hogwarts, only to find it largely empty; people had gone home to their families, the injured or dead to St Mungo's. And Oliver had not been in their flat when Marcus had Apparated there.

He needed to find someone who knew what had happened. Someone who could tell him if Oliver was… if he was… He couldn't even allow himself to think the worst, not consciously at least. All he needed was someone to tell him _where the fuck_ Oliver was.

People jostled around him, and he moved forwards, stepping into the maelstrom of activity, still searching for a familiar face to question. On the far side of the room, he saw a cluster of red-haired figures, and he began to move with purpose; if there were red-heads, then there were Weasleys, and they would know what was going on.

He pushed through the people, keeping his eyes on the group, irrationally terrified that if he took his eyes from them he would lose his one chance at finding Oliver. His determined path was beginning to draw attention and comments were thrown in his direction.

"Here, watch it, mate."

"Oi, careful. Don't he play Quidditch? Flint, ain't it? I 'eard 'e'd buggered off to Belgium."

"Wot you doin' 'ere, eh?"

"Poofter, isn't he? Look at 'im in that get up."

Marcus heard none of them; the Weasleys – he could see that they were Weasleys now – had turned and were watching his approach, but it was who their huddle had been obscuring that had his attention. Sitting on one of the chairs behind them was a familiar figure with his elbows resting on his his knees, his head in his hands.

"What the bloody hell does he want?" he heard the youngest male Weasley say – his name had escaped him for the moment – but he paid them no mind, his eyes only focused on Oliver. Oliver, alive and well, and right there.

Oliver lifted his head, and his eyes widened. "Marcus?" he said, pushing himself awkwardly to his feet.

"Thank Merlin-" Marcus gasped, skirting the last few people between them to reach his boyfriend, barely registering Oliver's tremulous smile of welcome as he pulled him into his arms. "Fuckin' 'ell, Wood, I thought I'd lost you," he murmured the words into the side of Oliver's neck, closing his eyes, breathing deeply. Oliver's skin smelt of blood and scorched flesh.

It hit him then, the fear that he had been holding back, and he tightened his grip on Oliver, fingers digging in painfully.

"Marcus, leggo… can't breathe…" Oliver gasped, struggling feebly in Marcus's arms.

Almost reluctantly, Marcus pulled back. His fingers lingered on Oliver's arms, still craving the physical reassurance that Oliver was there and not some cruel dream; it was only the crinkly-eyed amusement on his boyfriend's face that finally made him drop his hands to his sides and take a step back.

"Are you hurt?" he asked, surprised at how rough his voice sounded.

"No," Oliver said. "Not really. Just a few scrapes, and a couple of curses hit me, I'll be fine."

"You'll be fine?" Marcus repeated, taking in his boyfriend's appearance for the first time. He looked haggard, blood streaked his face and clothes, and a nasty bruise covered most of the left hand side of his face. It was obvious he was favouring his left leg, a hand was surreptitiously holding on to the back of a chair. He was alive, not dead, but from the looks of him he'd had a damned good try at it.

And that was when Marcus lost what little control he had been holding on to.

Before he could even register what he was doing, his drew his fist back and threw it wildly at Oliver, all the terror and not-knowing and the _sweetMerlindon'tlethimbedead_ of the past few days channelled into one flailing swing. It caught the side of Oliver's injured cheek and sent him crashing backwards into the chairs; he'd been completely unprepared for the blow and didn't even have the chance to slow his fall, landing messily and hard on the hospital floor.

"Merlin, Oliver, I…" Marcus began, horrified at what he had done, and he started to move forwards, only to find his words and movement forcefully curtailed by a strong arm that circled his throat and yanked him back, away from Oliver.

He struggled against the arm, trying to get free, but its owner was a lot stronger than he was and holding him tight enough to stop the flow of air into his lungs. His struggles became more frantic as his vision blackened around the edges, gloved fingers unable to get a solid grip, feet scrabbling for purchase on the linoleum covered floor as he was dragged further away.

And then he was being swung around, and the arm abruptly released, sending him sprawling on to the ground with a push of a hand against his spine. He landed on hands and knees, gulping in great heaving breaths of air. He was aware of angry voices all around, and he slowly got to his feet, turning back to face Oliver, only to find the solid bulk of Charlie Weasley in his path.

"Get out of here, Flint," Charlie said. "You're not welcome."

Still coughing, Marcus struggled to force out the words. "I just need to talk to…"

"No," Charlie's fists were clenched at his sides, "you need to turn around and walk out of that door, and leave Oliver the fuck alone."

Ordinarily, Marcus would have ignored him, would have pushed aggressively past with the pure-blood arrogance that had been drilled into him, but he couldn't. Not this time.

"I thought he was dead. I thought he was dead and I…I…couldn’t…" Marcus choked on the last few words. There was no sympathy in Charlie's expression, only hard-eyed loathing for one who had taken the coward's way out, and Marcus flinched away from it. He looked around at the crowd, seeing every battle-weary face staring at him with the same strength of emotion, and he took a few steps back. He had no right to be there; he was no better than those who had fought with Voldemort, and he was no use to Oliver.

"I'm sorry, I'll go. I'm sorry about everything..." He flailed his hand helplessly and swivelled on his heel. With stumbling steps, eyes clouded with unshed tears, he pushed his way out of the reception area and onto the street beyond, not hearing the voice calling out to him as he stepped through the shop window and onto the Muggle street beyond.

The street was relatively empty, but his stumbling appearance had captured the attention of an elderly couple slowly walking along the pavement on the other side of the road. If he wanted to Apparate, Marcus was going to have to find somewhere quieter to do it, and he began to walk quickly, blurring eyes trying to focus as he dodged down street after street, searching for some place free of Muggles.

With each step, he felt his already ragged control beginning to slip. Each step away from Oliver stabbing like a knife into his chest, each step forcing the truth of what had happened into his head. _He fought. You didn't. He fought. You left him._

That he couldn't have come back even if he'd wanted to was irrelevant - because Marcus knew he wouldn't have come back. He had not believed in Voldemort's plan, had not agreed with his methods, but the bulk of his supporters had been Slytherins; a lot of them, Marcus's friends. To have been at Oliver's side, killing his friends, his family, was almost unthinkable, but what was even more unthinkable now was the notion that one of them could have killed Oliver.

Marcus felt bile rising in his throat and he staggered on, walking faster, looking now just for someplace to hide, someplace he could get away from every pair of Muggle eyes that looked at him with concern. Merlin knows what he looked like, eyes reddened from fighting back tears, face paling as the feeling of sickness grew and his body began to tremble.

As he passed by a derelict shop, he saw the darkness of a covered alleyway beside it, and with relief he ducked into it, his gloved hand palming the grimy walls as he stumbled further into the shadows. He tried to calm the shivers, swallowing hard against the rushing tide of emotion threatening to overwhelm him, resolutely refusing to break down.

Since when did he, Marcus Flint, behave like a snotty-nosed Hufflepuff? He was not going to blub like a girl just 'cause Oliver could have been dead, could have been lying in St Mungo's, the victim of a fellow Slytherin's curse, when Marcus was swanning about in Belgium like a ponce.

Why had he left Oliver behind? Why hadn't he forced him to come? Marcus stared at his hand, at the offending knuckles that had punched Oliver's face. Why _the fuck_ hadn't _he_ stayed? What sort of cowardly prick let his boyfriend go to war and ran away?

'Cause that was what he had done really, wasn't it? The Weasley brat was right: he was a coward.

A fucking coward.

He drew his fist back and slammed it into the wall, the leather of his gloves cushioning the blow slightly. It felt right. Deserved. Blood was pulsing in his ears, his entire world focusing on this one moment, and he pulled his fist back and punched again, harder, this time feeling a satisfying spike of pain. And then he was pummelling the wall, leather ripping and red staining brick as he threw his fist again and again, pain and anger blending and pulsing, until finally he was numb. Slowly, the blows eased and he let his hand fall to his side broken and useless.

Overcome with exhaustion, Marcus leant his head against the wall, feeling dampness on his cheeks. Had he been crying? He hadn’t noticed.

How had it all gone so wrong? He should have been ecstatic, relieved, but instead all he felt was ill, and so very, very alone.

His legs gave way then and he sank to the ground, his coat providing little insulation against the cold from the dank and dirty alley floor. Not that Marcus noticed. He cradled his broken hand to his chest and rubbed his face against the sleeve of his left arm, covering designer wool in snot and tears.

He should go home, but he didn't know where that was anymore. After what he had done, how he had behaved, he couldn't go back to the flat. Not now, not ever.

What the fuck was he going to do?

He drew his knees up to his chest, curled his arm around them and dropped his head down. More tears rolled from his eyes and he made no attempt to wipe them away, too tired to care, aware only of the aching pain in his broken hand as it leaked blood onto his clothes and the feeling of emptiness seeping through his soul.

He didn't register the voice when it called out, "He's here!" Didn't even look up when it shouted, louder, "I've found him; he's down here!"

The clattering footsteps made no impression, the shadow that fell over him not even sparking the slightest bit of interest. He didn't give a fuck any more; whoever it was could piss off and leave him alone.

But they didn't, instead they said, "Flint," loudly, and shook his shoulder with their hand when he ignored them. "For fuck's sake, Flint, say something."

"Fuck off, Weasley," Marcus said roughly, recognising the voice. He refused to look up, just hugged his knees tighter and bit down on the pain as his injured hand pressed against his chest.

"Not a chance," Charlie replied, "not after the bloody hassle of trying to find you." Then he continued, half to himself, "Where the bloody hell is he? He was right behind me a minute ago…"

"Charlie?" Marcus closed his eyes briefly when he heard Oliver's voice call out.

"Yeah, mate, down here!"

"Fuckin' 'ell, no," Marcus said, releasing his knees and planting a hand on the ground to push himself up. It was awkward one-handed, and he felt Charlie move to help him as thundering footsteps approached from the open end of the alley.

Both Gryffindors spoke at the same time.

"Marcus, are you…?"

"Flint, what the fuck…?"

He lifted his head and saw them both staring at his hand. “It’s nuthin’,” he mumbled, trying too late to tuck it inside his jacket. He felt a surge of pain then, hard and fast, and part of him relished it, even squeezing his fist a little.

Oliver was at his side, grabbing his sleeve. “You’re a stupid bastard at times. C’mon, we need to go back to the hospital.”

Marcus pulled away, ignoring pity he saw in both faces. “No fuckin’ way. I’ll get lynched in there. Just go back and I’ll sort somethin’ out.”

Charlie rolled his eyes. “Merlin’s beard, Flint. Stop being such a drama queen and get walking. Some of us have better things to do than coddle you. There’s been a war, in case you hadn’t noticed.”

Charlie’s words were gently mocking, not meant to be harsh, but a return to the old days of exchanging insults. To Marcus, though, each word was a barb, a truth well deserved. “Yeah,” he said. “Sorry I missed it. Congratulations an’ all that.” He made sure his smile was more of a snarl. “Now fuck off back to the celebrations an’ I’ll sort myself out. I don’t need your help.”

Charlie scowled. “What do you see in this twat, Ol?”

“Just give us a minute,” Oliver said roughly.

Charlie glanced between the two and nodded slowly. “Shout if you need me,” he said and walked deliberately slowly away from them.

Oliver’s face was pale, even paler than before, and Marcus felt wretched but kept the sneer on his lips. “Seriously, Wood, just go.” Please, he thought.

“What the hell is wrong with you?”

“Nuthin’. Everythin’.” Marcus was done. He couldn’t pretend anymore. “Please, just get yourself checked over. I’ll...I’ll get my stuff from the flat and-”

“You’ll what?” Anger flushed Oliver’s cheeks. “No fucking way.”

“I need to leave, Wood. You can’t seriously think this is going to work now?” Even as he spoke the reality of their future was unfolding in Marcus’s mind. It wasn’t good. “You won. We lost. They’re going to destroy what’s left of us. I need to go while I still ‘ave a chance. Stop you gettin’ dragged into it as well. Boyfriend of a traitor an’ all that. If I leave now you can start over.”

“You’re no making any sense. You’re no a traitor.” Oliver’s accent always strengthened when he was upset. “And there’s no bloody way you’re leaving me now. Not after everything we’ve been through.”

“I ‘ave to.” Blood was drip dripping from his hand onto the ground and Marcus stared down at the puddle.

There was silence for a moment then Oliver said sharply, “I told them, Marcus. They know.”

_Fuck._ Marcus lifted his gaze and met Oliver’s now defiant stare. “Told them what exactly?”

“That you’ve been working for Dumbledore for years, spying.” Oliver took a step forward, close enough that Marcus could smell the smoke and sweat. “That they should be thanking you, not calling you a traitor.”

Marcus shook his head wearily. “Easy to say now that Dumbledore’s dead. Good luck proving that.”

“For fuck’s sake, I’m still here you daft prick. I think I’d remember being the one who relayed all the information back to him.”

“Yeah, but-”

“And Felonius Pike sent us an awful lot of useful information in the past year, eh, _Felonius_?”

Hearing the name of his alias said out loud still made Marcus feel uneasy even though he knew the danger had lessened dramatically that day. Not over, though. There would still be those who wouldn’t understand what he had done. His own family, those that were left, sprang to the front of his mind. _Traitor._

Charlie’s voice interrupted. Marcus hadn’t noticed him return. “Always did wonder who Felonius Pike was. Bit bloody obvious when Oliver said, but none of us would have ever thought you would have turned against your own.”

The admiration in his voice made Marcus feel sick. “I didn’t turn against my own,” he snapped. “I was trying to save them from Voldemort. Not fuckin’ kill them. There’s a big difference.” Was there really, though? “Dumbledore understood.”

“Still, mate, we owe you an apology.” Charlie had his hand outstretched. “And a thank you.”

Marcus eyed Charlie’s hand with distaste. Ignored the look of pride in Oliver’s eyes. Dropped his own gaze to his hand which was throbbing mercilessly now, a bloody, brutal reminder of what had driven him here, to this moment.

Charlie’s hand fell away as his own eyes fell to Marcus’s hand. “Sorry, mate,” he said, “forgot. We really need to get that looked at.”

“And I will.” Marcus felt his world straighten a little. A bit more focus return. He looked at them both as his other hand found his wand and gripped it, mentally flicking through hospitals he’d visited when playing Quidditch. Tried to judge which one would be the least judgemental. Back to Belgium seemed the best idea. Maybe even ask Krum if he could crash on his couch for a while.

Oliver knew him well enough to know something had changed and was frowning. “Marcus, please. Just come back to St Mungo’s and we can get this all sorted out.” He raised his hand to touch Marcus’s face and Marcus took a step back.

“Wood, I’m sorry. Really. Sorry I’ve let you down, let everyone down.” His fingers tightened on his wand and he focused hard. “Shove my stuff in boxes and I’ll send someone to get it. Or chuck it. Whatever you want.” He wasn’t sure what they did to traitor’s belongings after a war.

He saw Oliver reach out to grab him, heard his anguished, “No!” as he felt himself sucked into the stomach turning tunnel of Apparition.

Doing what traitors do well. Running away.


End file.
